


the sun is coming through

by starsaregoingout (abovetheruins)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 04:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14097507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/starsaregoingout
Summary: You have spoken with Lord Elrond only once, a few days after your arrival to Rivendell. He had welcomed you, expressing with what had seemed to be genuine regret that more of your company could not be saved. Still fogged by pain, you had only been able to murmur your gratitude, your eyes wet with tears at the memory of your fear and the dying screams of your companions.His eyes had softened at your sorrow, his gaze a warm, dark balm upon your sore heart. “Rest,” he had said, his voice a soothing baritone. You had been calmed both by his words and by his bearing, for there was a sense of strength about him that served to hold the remnants of your fear at bay. “You are safe here.”





	the sun is coming through

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a request: _I was wondering if you could write a Elrond x reader where the reader is insecure, human, and maybe just maybe plus size?? Maybe??_
> 
> this was my first time writing elrond. hope i did okay!

Rivendell lies spread before you, gleaming bright and golden in the early morning sunlight. You breathe in the crisp, clean air, watching as the sun’s rays drift lazily through its trees, and take another bite of the sweet bread and jam you’d been given for breakfast. 

You could easily find slumber here, with your belly pleasantly full and the sun a warm balm on your face. In fact, you often have, falling asleep while perched in this very chair on the balcony of your room, or dozing in your bed while birdsong drifts in from your open windows. Sleep and books have been your constant companions for weeks now; you are equipped for little else in your current state. 

You have recovered much since your first days in Rivendell, however. You shudder to remember that time, how the pain had wracked you, agony the likes of which you’d never felt before lancing through your leg and setting your skin aflame. You remember little but heat and sweat and the slickness of your own blood soaking the sheets beneath you, though there are foggy recollections of slender fingers and soft voices easing your torment. You had thought it all a dream, the fevered imaginings of the dying, until you had awoken days later upon soft, clean sheets in a room bathed in moonlight. You had been saved.

Even now you can hardly believe your good fortune. You had lain in the cold dark with the bodies of your companions strewn around you, blood spilling from the tear in your leg, and known that you were upon death’s door. Stricken down by a cowardly pack of bandits finding easy sport in stealing from merchants. You had tried to escape, but a sword had torn the flesh of your leg to ribbons, and the men’s taunting laughter had been the last thing you heard before darkness swallowed you.

You had not known you were so near Elven lands then, not until you’d awoken in Rivendell with a pale-haired Elf calmly wrapping your leg in fresh bandages. 

“Be still, and at peace,” she had told you. “Lord Elrond welcomes you to Rivendell, and sends his regards. You must rest now. Regain your strength.”

Your leg had been a ruin. Bandages wrapped around your foot and up along your calf, thick and carrying the faint scent of some medicinal herb. It had been numb for days, and you had been glad of that, the pain of your wound still fresh in your mind. You could not bear to put any weight upon it, and had been advised against doing so by the healer who had been tasked to tend to you.

So you had remained, bedridden and weak from your brush with death. Your recovery had been slow, and long, but there had been much to see, and you marveled each morning as you woke to the pale dawn spilling over the beauty of Rivendell. For it _was_ beautiful, as befitting the home of so lovely a race. 

In truth, though you had spent weeks among the elves, you had yet to grow accustomed to their presence. You had never encountered such beings before, and never expected to; to be sheltered among them now was a rare gift indeed, and yet you could not help but feel a twinge of unease. Your interactions with the elves had been limited to your healer and a handful of others who saw that your meals were delivered to your room each day, and yet even this small number seemed overwhelming. You felt clumsy and ungainly in their presence, unmoored by their grace and beauty. You were merely a human, after all, and a plain one at that. To be surrounded by such creatures, all as tall, fair, and slender as the last, awoke old insecurities that you had struggled for much of your life to overcome.

This was due to no fault of your hosts; nay, they had been kind and courteous to you since your arrival, and you would forever be grateful for their efforts. You owed them your life. 

A knock sounds at your door, scattering your thoughts to the wind, and you perk up in your chair. It is your healer, no doubt, sent to check upon your wound. She had made appreciative noises the morning before, remarking upon the speed of your recovery with a satisfied smile. 

“We will have you up and walking unaided yet,” she had said, your arm wrapped snuggly around her own as she helped you around the room. You had flushed beneath her attention, waddling along beside her on unsteady feet and feeling twice as awkward for it. You felt no pain, only a peculiar sort of heaviness, as though weights had been attached to your injured limb. It would pass, she had told you, though you may carry a limp for the rest of your life. 

You would certainly carry a scar. 

“Come in,” you call softly, banishing such a thought from your head. Better to suffer a scar than to have lost your life. 

You turn to greet your guest, a ready smile on your face, though it falters in shock at the sight of the dark-haired elf approaching you.

You have spoken with Lord Elrond only once, a few days after your arrival to Rivendell. He had welcomed you, expressing with what had seemed to be genuine regret that more of your company could not be saved. Still fogged by pain, you had only been able to murmur your gratitude, your eyes wet with tears at the memory of your fear and the dying screams of your companions.

His eyes had softened at your sorrow, his gaze a warm, dark balm upon your sore heart. “Rest,” he had said, his voice a soothing baritone. You had been calmed both by his words and by his bearing, for there was a sense of strength about him that served to hold the remnants of your fear at bay. “You are safe here.”

You had believed him. From then on, whenever you were awoken in the middle of the night by dreams of jeering men and blades cutting into your flesh, you had reached for those words – “ _You are safe here_.” – and felt at peace. 

Far more at peace than you are now, when faced with his presence again.

“Lord Elrond,” you stammer, making as if to rise.

He stills you with a wave of his hand. “I would join you,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair at your table, “if you do not object?”

“Please,” you insist, your heart in your throat as he takes the seat. Your hands fold nervously in your lap as you study his face, wondering at his sudden visit. You feel unmoored in his presence, now that you are aware enough to appreciate it. Without the haze of pain and sorrow clouding your mind, you are conscious now more than ever of what a powerful figure he is, the Lord of this land and older than you can even hope to fathom.

Yet there is the same kindness upon his face as when he had welcomed you to Rivendell, and some of the nervous tension eases from your shoulders at the sight of it.

“You have been making great strides in your recovery, I have been told,” he says, inclining his head toward your bound leg. 

“Oh, yes,” you say, a little surprised. Had he come to check on you, then, to judge the speed of your recovery for himself? “Due to the efforts of yourself and your kin. I owe you my thanks, more than I can ever hope to repay – “

Another wave of his hand stems the flow of your words. “There is no need for talk of repayment for a life saved. I only regret that we could not purge our lands of that scourge in time to prevent the deaths of your companions, and your own suffering.”

You lower your eyes, humbled by his words. “I am grateful nonetheless, and would return your kindness. Should there be any need you or your kin would have of me, I would seek to fill it.” 

There is silence for a moment. 

“Would you accompany me?”

“My Lord?” you question, as startled as you are confused by the request. Lord Elrond regards you with patient understanding, and though it may be but a trick of your mind, you swear you catch a spark of amusement in his eyes. 

“You have toiled in these rooms for too long, I think,” he says. “A short walk beyond these walls may prove beneficial, if your strength allows it.”

You waver, a sour feeling building in your stomach. It is true that you have spent your entire convalescence within the walls of your room and have yet to venture beyond it, but you have not wished to. You wilt beneath the attentions of the few elves who see to you now; to walk among them on the arm of their Lord, awkward and lumbering as you are with your injured leg, fills you with unease.

Yet you do not wish to reject Lord Elrond. It is kind of him to make such a request, when surely he must have matters far more important to attend to. 

And, you must confess, you wish to prolong his presence in whatever way you can. Since your attack you have struggled to overcome the remnants of fear and restlessness that plague you, feelings which are exacerbated by the sight of your wound as the bandages are changed each day – angry and red and ugly – along with the painful ache of your healing muscles. 

Yet you feel none of these things with Lord Elrond before you. You feel at ease, protected, _safe_ , and despite your apprehension at leaving the privacy of your room, you find yourself agreeing readily enough to his offer. 

“Then let us depart,” he says, rising to his feet. You’re struck for a moment by his grace, even in so mundane a task, and feel twice as ungainly as you rise from your chair, pressing your palm to the table as you waver unsteadily on your feet.

Lord Elrond is there within a moment, curling your arm through his and helping you to find your balance. “Hold tight to me,” he instructs, and you do so with an immediacy that flusters you. You can imagine the ring of his voice over a battleground and how swiftly his subordinates must obey his command, and for some reason this only serves to fluster you more.

You worry about slowing him down, more aware now than ever before of the awkward shuffle of your legs. Lord Elrond merely guides you along, unperturbed, accommodating for your unsteady gait by keeping you close to his side. This allows you to walk without putting too much weight on your injured leg, and the warmth of his shoulder against yours distracts you enough that you barely pay attention to the ache of your wound. 

You swallow as his long hair brushes against your crown, your eyes trained on the ground more to hide your face than to guide your footsteps. You scold yourself for your ridiculous blush – you can feel it spreading over your cheeks, a familiar band of warmth that makes you feel far more foolish than any wound ever could. But you can feel Lord Elrond’s strength in the arm curled around yours, a strength that soothes and thrills you in equal measure, and it is impossible to ignore his presence when he is tucked so close to you. 

You tense as you come across a party of elves you have never seen before, dressed in finery and engaging in murmured conversation around a table of food and wine. One plays a harp, her fingers drifting sweetly along the strings, and you marvel at the beauty of the scene, though you duck your head when they notice your approach. They say nothing, though you can imagine the weight of their stares fixed upon you as you pass.

You can sense Lord Elrond’s stare as well, though he says nothing and merely continues to guide you along the borders of the expansive courtyard. The warmth in your face now has little to do with his proximity, and your stomach curdles as you take one last look over your shoulder at the elves. What must they think of you, you wonder, as different as you are from them. There is nothing slender or fair about you, no grace to be found in your limbs even without the detriment of your wound. 

“You seek condemnation where there is none to be found.” Your eyes flit away from the elves at the sound of Lord Elrond’s voice, deep and _knowing_. Shame-faced, you part your lips to feign confusion at his observation –

– and yet find yourself speaking the truth instead. “I seek it because I expect to find it,” you murmur, your gaze trained carefully on the horizon. “It is through no action of your kin, my Lord, I swear it. I am – “ Your voice trails off, frustration at yourself barring the words from your throat. _I am no beauty, and to be surrounded by such fair folk only serves to remind me of it_. 

“You are a fighter.” You falter at Lord Elrond’s words, startled into seeking his face. His dark eyes are fierce, though there is no anger in them, merely a need, perhaps to make you _understand_. “You clung to life even as others sought to take it from you. You are fighting even now – through the fear and the pain inflicted upon you. I can see the struggle written upon your face, a struggle you have undertaken alone.” 

The ferocity in his eyes fades to a soft acknowledgement, a sense of knowing that makes you feel strangely exposed, the depths of you laid bare. “Often it is through others that we may see our weaknesses, but the same may be said for our strengths, and of that, you have in spades.” His palm squeezes lightly around your arm. “And there is beauty to be found in that.”

Unbidden, the prickle of tears surges at the back of your eyes. You blink hastily to halt their course, though your ragged exhale is proof enough of how his words have affected you. Yet you feel no shame, no embarrassment. Rather, you feel… unburdened. _Understood_. It is a good feeling.

“I will return you to your room, if you’d like,” Lord Elrond continues, no doubt inferring from your silence that you would prefer your privacy now. 

You shake your head, a small smile curling your lips. “Let us go on, my Lord, if we may?” you return, humor lightening your steps. You cannot remember the last time you felt such contentment. “I believe there is some strength in me yet.”

Lord Elrond returns your smile, dark eyes gleaming, and as one you continue on.

**Author's Note:**

> thinking of writing a follow up, let me know your ~thoughts


End file.
